


Broken Pieces

by HunterusHeroicus93



Category: Lords of Chaos (2018), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterusHeroicus93/pseuds/HunterusHeroicus93
Summary: An unpleasantly familiar face comes back into Pelle's life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to share this one. I've worked hard on it, and I am damn proud of the way it turned out.
> 
> One thing I feel the need to mention is that Faust is slightly older than Pelle here. Being 17 would have made this whole thing a bit awkward, so it had to be changed.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and I would love to hear your thoughts, so please don't forget to leave a comment! <3

Music blared, and Pelle shot up with a gasp. Øystein laughed.  
  
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he giggled. Pelle glared at him.  
  
“You were talking in your sleep. I couldn’t wake you up. So I tried a new tactic.”  
  
Pelle sighed, and shook the grogginess off. “Damn nightmares,” he mumbled. He got up, stretched, and made for the door. Øystein caught his arm.  
  
“Wanna talk about it?”  
  
“No.” Pelle pulled free of Øystein’s grip, and left the room. Øystein huffed in annoyance, and followed him.  
  
“You gotta talk to me,” he said.  
  
“Why?” Pelle growled back. “You can’t do anything.”  
  
“You don’t know that. And anyway, talking can help. You don’t have to do this alone.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not gonna stop.” Pelle sat down at the kitchen table and slumped forwards, sighing. Øystein took a seat opposite him.  
  
“Me and the guys, we care about you,” he said quietly. “I know we don’t really show it, but it’s true.”  
  
Pelle looked up. “You do?”  
  
“Of course. You’re our friend. And we don’t have anyone else. We gotta look after each other.”  
  
“You’re right. But… I can’t. I have to deal with this by myself.”  
  
“Why?” Øystein pressed.  
  
“I just do. Please, drop it.” Pelle stood and headed for the front door. He stepped outside, leaving Øystein staring worriedly after the singer.  
  
***  
  
Rehearsal went badly that afternoon. The time dragged, and Pelle felt sluggish, like his brain and his voice weren’t quite in sync. Finally, he threw down his microphone and left the room, slamming the door behind him. The others watched him go in shock.  
  
“What the fuck was that about?” Jørn asked.  
  
“He’s not doing so well,” Øystein said, not taking his eyes off the door. “He had another nightmare.”  
  
“Shit,” Jan muttered. “He still won’t say anything about it?”  
  
Øystein shook his head. “I tried again this morning, and he told me to drop it. If I push him…” He trailed off. He picked up the microphone and reset it to its position on the stand.  
  
“We have to do something. An intervention, lock him up until he talks, I don’t know. But he needs help.”  
  
“I agree, but I don’t think locking him up is a good idea,” Jan said.  
  
“Well then, you come up with something!” Øystein shouted, rounding on the drummer.  
  
Jan flinched and dropped a stick. He ducked down behind his set to retrieve it. Jørn sighed.  
  
“Yelling isn’t going to help anyone, least of all him,” he said. “We’ll think of something.”  
  
“Well, we’d better think of it fast,” Øystein said, biting his lip. “I don’t think he has much strength left.”  
  
***  
  
Two days later, Øystein called a band meeting. Pelle showed up late, his hair unbrushed and dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept at all in the last forty eight hours, and it was beginning to show. Øystein took in his appearance, but said nothing.  
  
“What’s this about?” Pelle grumbled sleepily. He leaned back in a chair, resting his feet on an amp.  
  
“We’ve been invited to play a show next week, with another band. They’ve seen us perform, and they want us as support.”  
  
“That’s awesome!” Jan grinned, high-fiving Jørn.  
  
“Who’s the other band?” Jørn asked.  
  
“They’re called _Thorns_ ,” Øystein said. “They’re coming here tomorrow to make arrangements and see how we sound. So we’d better be good.” He glanced at Pelle, who was staring at the ceiling.  
  
“No problem,” Jørn said.  
  
“Yeah, we’re gonna be great,” Jan added.  
  
“I hope so,” Øystein said quietly. He cleared his throat. “Alright, get outta here. We’re gonna need all our energy tomorrow, so go relax.”  
  
Jørn and Jan left the room, chatting excitedly about the upcoming show. Øystein and Pelle stayed put.  
  
“What do you think?” Øystein asked.  
  
“I guess I’d better get some sleep,” Pelle said, standing up. “Just don’t wake me up with fucking music again.”  
  
“Got it,” Øystein said, giving his friend a smile. Pelle’s mouth twitched in response, and they left together, discussing what songs they should play at the rehearsal.  
  
***  
  
The tiny house was suddenly full of people, and Pelle wasn’t sure he liked it. He’d locked himself in his room as they arrived, and he could hear them now, talking and laughing downstairs as they waited for him to make his appearance.  
  
He took a deep breath, and slowly made his way down. Øystein spotted him as he reached the doorway.  
  
“Pelle!” he called. “Come and meet the guys.” He grabbed Pelle’s arm and pulled him into the tightly packed kitchen.  
  
“This is Harald Eilertsen, and Marius Vold, bass and vocals,” he said, gesturing to two young men leaning against the counter, a half empty case of beer sitting between them. Pelle nodded but said nothing. The others looked at him oddly.  
  
“ _This_ ,” Øystein said dramatically, dragging Pelle over to another man, who was talking to Jørn, “is Sn - I mean, Blackthorn.”  
  
“Good to meet you,” Blackthorn grunted. He wasn’t the conversational type either, and Pelle was grateful for that.  
  
“And the tall, handsome one over there,” Øystein pointed to where Jan was standing with someone who was at least a foot taller than almost everyone in the room. “That’s Faust.”  
  
Faust turned at the mention of his name, and Pelle’s blood ran cold. The dark eyes met his, flashing with recognition. Faust smirked, drained his beer bottle, and made his way over. Pelle turned and sped out of the room, making for the safety of his bedroom.  
  
Øystein groaned. “Sorry about that. He’s been a little… off, lately.”  
  
Faust smiled. “No problem. I’ll meet him again soon.” He set his empty bottle down, pulled out two more and handed one to Øystein. They clinked them together and drank until they were almost empty.  
  
The spent the rest of the day drinking and getting to know each other, deciding to put off their work until the next day. Pelle did not reappear that evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Pelle lay on his bed, deep in thought, listening to the sounds coming from the crowd in the kitchen.   
  
_ Why? Why now? _   
  
Angry tears slipped down his cheeks. He didn’t bother wiping them away.   
  
A knock at the door pulled him from his mind.   
  
“Pelle? Are you okay?” Øystein called. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but you gotta come down. We need you. We can’t talk about the band if one of us is missing.”   
  
“Leave me alone,” Pelle choked out. “I don’t want to do the show.”   
  
“What? Why not?”   
  
“It’s… nothing.”   
  
“No, you need to tell me why. Open the door, or I’m kicking it down.”   
  
Pelle huffed.   
  
“Alright, fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”   
  
The door opened just as Øystein raised a foot. Pelle lay back down on his bed, his eyes glued to nothing in particular.   
  
“What’s going on?” Øystein asked, shutting the door.   
  
Pelle sighed, and sat up. Øystein clearly wasn’t going to let this go.   
  
“It’s Faust.”   
  
“What about him?”   
  
“We have… history. We were in high school together. Only, he wasn’t Faust then. His name was Bård.”   
  
“Okay. What’s this have to do with the show? Or anything, for that matter?”   
  
“We were kind of a thing.”   
  
“Oh.” Øystein wasn’t sure what to think about that, but he didn’t judge Pelle. “Did you guys end badly or something?”   
  
“Or something,” Pelle nodded. “He was arrested. For assault.”   
  
“Assault on whom?” Øystein asked. Pelle gave him a look. “No… you don’t mean…?” Øystein faltered, barely able to take in what his friend was saying.   
  
Pelle nodded.   
  
“He was great, at first. Really nice. Charming. You know the type. Then, he started bullying me. He didn’t like how I dressed. How I stayed away from people. I never hung out with his friends. He thought I wasn’t making enough of an effort to show my feelings for him. He’d make me go with him when he and his friends went out partying. We’d hang out in a field near our home, drinking and setting fire to things. I didn’t like it. I left once, and went home. He came back later, drunk, and started yelling at me. That was the first time he hit me.” Pelle took a breath, and Øystein stared at him, stunned.   
  
“He’s the reason I’ve been having nightmares. They come and go, sometimes they’re more frequent. It’s been years, but I’m still terrified of him. And now he’s here - “ His voice broke, and he stopped, letting the tears fall freely.   
  
“Jesus,” Øystein whispered. “Well, he won’t be here long.” He stood up to leave, but Pelle stopped him.   
  
“No, don’t. He’ll know I’ve told you. He’ll kill me. He said so himself. ‘If you ever tell anyone, I’ll kill you.’ And he meant it.”   
  
“I can’t let him stay here, much less play on stage with you,” Øystein growled.   
  
“Well, he won’t be. We’re in different bands, remember?”   
  
“You know what I mean.”   
  
“I know. But you have to let him stay. I’ll do the show. Just don’t let on you know anything. Please.”   
  
Øystein glared for a second longer, then gave in. “Fine. He stays. But I’ll be watching him. If he comes near you…” He let the threat hang in the air. “I have to go back down. I’ll see you tomorrow.”   
  
“Goodnight.” Pelle rolled over and shut his eyes, hoping sleep came quickly.   
  
“‘Night,” Øystein said softly, leaving the young singer to his nightmares.   
  
***   
  
The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was tense. Øystein glared at Faust the entire time the band was playing. Luckily, Faust was concentrating too hard to notice. Still, Pelle kicked the guitarist once or twice and silently told him to stop.   
  
Between their sets, Faust sat with Jørn and Jan, laughing about something.   
  
“What are you guys talking about?” Marius asked, dragging over a chair and joining them.   
  
“I was just telling the guys about the time I did a few years ago,” Faust told him.   
  
“Oh yeah, I remember. Some kid from your school, wasn’t it?”   
  
“Yeah. Little shit started on me for no reason, so I beat the crap out of him.” He laughed again, catching Pelle’s eye as he did so. He winked.   
  
Øystein overheard and stood up, knocking his chair over. The others looked up at the crash.   
  
“What the hell, man?” Jan asked. “You okay?”   
  
“Yeah, I - I just need some air.” He left the room and leaned against the wall, seething. Pelle joined him a second later.   
  
“How the fuck could he just shrug it off like that?”   
  
“Because that’s Faust,” Pelle said simply. “He’s an asshole.”   
  
“He’s more than that,” Øystein muttered.   
  
“Yeah, I know, trust me.”   
  
Øystein sighed. “You okay?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“I can’t let you go back in there.”   
  
“You have to. We have to play this show. If we pull out now, it could ruin us. We’d never play anywhere again. Faust will make sure of it.”   
  
Øystein ran his hands through his hair. “Alright. One show. Then we never see them again.”   
  
“Deal.” They shook on it, then headed back inside.   
  
Jørn and Jan had just finished setting up, and were in position, waiting for their two missing members to return. Pelle took his place at the microphone, and drew a deep breath, trying to imagine it was only the four of them, that this was just another rehearsal. Øystein plugged in his guitar, and they began.   
  
By the end of the set, Pelle’s voice was hoarser than usual, and he was barely able to speak. He was thankful for that, because Faust kept trying to talk to him, and he didn’t trust his voice not to break when he answered. He simply nodded or shook his head, and if something required a more detailed answer, Øystein took over.   
  
The bands went their separate ways that evening, back to their homes to rest for the coming show. They’d finished drawing up set times, setlists, and posters advertising them to their fans, which would be distributed personally to each one.   
  
There were a few more rehearsals, but they were alone. Øystein had told Marius and the others that they needed their space in order to focus. The band had agreed, and they would meet again on the night of the show.   
  
That time came all too quickly for Pelle. He stood backstage with Jørn and Jan, pacing, waiting for Øystein to appear with the rest of them.   
  
“Would you sit down?” Jan groaned. “You’re making me nervous.”   
  
“Sorry,” Pelle said, and perched on the edge of a chair, running his hands over his thighs.   
  
“What are you so worked up about, anyway?” Jørn asked. “We’ve played shows before.”   
  
“We’ve never opened for another band before,” Pelle said.   
  
“That’s true,” Jan agreed. “But we’ll be fine. It’s just another show.”   
  
Pelle nodded and drew in a breath, letting it out slowly. His heartbeat finally slowed, and his head cleared. For about five seconds.   
  
“Hey, we’re here!” Øystein called from the doorway. The five newcomers entered the small room, and Pelle suddenly felt trapped. Faust stood directly between him and the door, so there was nowhere to go.   
  
His heart rate skyrocketed, and his breath caught in his throat.   
  
_ Fuck,  _ he thought.  _ Am I dying? _   
  
“Pelle?”   
  
“Are you okay?”   
  
“What’s wrong with him?”   
  
The voices merged together, and he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then, a pair of hands landed on his shoulders. The contact grounded him slightly, and he looked up. Øystein’s face swam in front of him.   
  
“Sit,” Øystein said, pushing him backwards onto a chair. He turned to the others. “Can you guys give us a minute?”   
  
They nodded and left.   
  
“What’s… happening?” Pelle gasped.   
  
“You’re having a panic attack,” Øystein said. “It’s alright. I’m here. Try to take a deep breath.”   
  
Pelle tried, and his chest tightened. He thought his ribs were going to cave in. He shook his head.   
  
“I… can’t.”   
  
“You can. Try again.” Øystein demonstrated, breathing in slowly, holding it for a second, then letting it out.   
  
Pelle did the same. It was shaky, but he managed. He did it again, steadier this time. Øystein kept a hand on his shoulder and waited patiently for Pelle to calm himself.   
  
Pelle took one more breath, and finally he was able to see straight.   
  
“Fuck. That was scary.”   
  
“I know the feeling,” Øystein agreed. “You okay?”   
  
“Better,” Pelle nodded.   
  
There was a knock at the door, and Jan’s voice called to them.   
  
“Is everything okay?”   
  
“Yeah, we’re good,” Øystein called back.   
  
“Okay. We’re almost ready out here.”   
  
“We’ll be out in a second.”   
  
Øystein turned back to Pelle. “You ready?”   
  
“As I’ll ever be.” Pelle stood on shaky legs, and took a second to regain his balance.   
  
“Let’s do this.”   
  
***   
  
The show went better than any of them could have hoped for. They were completely in sync, the crowd loved them, and Pelle felt more alive than he had in a long time. They sat backstage while the second band played, talking and laughing.   
  
“That was incredible!” Jan said. “I don’t think I’ve ever drummed so hard in my life. I broke a stick!” He held up the two halves, grinning.   
  
“That was pretty awesome,” Øystein said. “What about you, Pelle? You were great!”   
  
“I’ve never sung like that before. It was like everything just… fell into place.” Pelle smiled to himself. Maybe things would get better from now on.   
  
The band finished their set, and came staggering off the stage to thunderous cheers and applause. Pelle was too happy to notice Faust watching him as he entered, a smirk twitching at his lips.   
  
“You guys were amazing,” Marius said, clapping Øystein on the back.   
  
“You weren’t so bad yourselves,” Øystein laughed.   
  
“What do you say to some drinks? Let’s go and celebrate.”   
  
The others agreed, and Pelle felt his stomach clench. He wasn’t going to let anything ruin his mood, though, so he nodded.   
  
They found a bar nearby, and Marius ordered a round of beers. They drank in silence for a few minutes, savouring the moment.   
  
Faust was the first to finish.   
  
“So, when are we going to play together again?”   
  
Øystein looked up. “Uh…”   
  
“Come on, tonight was great. We have to do it again.”   
  
“I don’t know,” Øystein said. He cleared his throat. “I mean, a one-off show like this, people will be talking about it for months. We don’t want to sell out by playing another one.”   
  
Marius and Harald agreed.   
  
“Fine,” Faust said. “I’m getting another drink, anyone want one?”   
  
Four of them held up empty bottles, and Faust rolled his eyes.   
  
“Pelle, give me a hand.”   
  
“I’ll do it,” Øystein stepped in.   
  
“I’m sure he can manage,” Faust smiled.   
  
Pelle nodded at Øystein and stood, making his way towards the bar. Faust joined him a second later. He eyed the singer like an eagle eyeing its prey.   
  
“Damn, you look good.”   
  
Pelle said nothing.   
  
“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.”   
  
Pelle shifted uncomfortably.   
  
“Bård…”   
  
“It’s Faust,” he snapped. Pelle flinched.   
  
“Sorry, Faust,” he said quietly. “What do you want?”   
  
“You, of course.”   
  
Pelle felt sick. “What are you talking about?”   
  
“I missed you. All those months locked up in that stupid kid prison. It made me realise how I felt. I’m sorry for what I did to you. It was horrible.”   
  
Pelle stilled, hardly daring to breathe. He looked up slowly. “You mean that?”   
  
“I mean it. I was an ass. I’m sorry.” Faust rested a hand on Pelle’s fingers, stroking them softly. Pelle stiffened at the touch, and Faust noticed. He moved his hand to his own hair.   
  
“Right. You hate me. I get it.” He ordered the beers, took three of them back to the table, and handed two of them to Jørn and Jan. Pelle followed with the others, setting them in front of Øystein and Blackthorn.   
  
“You okay?” Øystein whispered.   
  
Pelle shook his head slightly.   
  
“I saw him. Touching you. What did he say?”   
  
“Not here,” Pelle muttered. “Later.”   
  
Øystein nodded and turned back to the group, who were chatting about something that didn’t particularly interest him.


	3. Chapter 3

Øystein had taken to sleeping in Pelle’s room after the screaming had woken the entire household, and now they sat together on Pelle’s bed as Pelle explained what had happened in the bar.   
  
“So…” Øystein said slowly. “Do you think he means it?”   
  
“I don’t know. He always apologised after, but he was a liar then. Maybe prison really did change him.”   
  
“Do you want to find out?”   
  
Pelle shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him. He’s going to have to prove himself.”   
  
“Pelle. The guy abused you. He’s given you nightmares, panic attacks. He doesn’t deserve you.”   
  
Pelle sighed. “I know. But, like I said, he was nice at the start. Maybe he’s nice now.”   
  
“I don’t believe that for a second. Guys like him never change. My aunt was with one for years. Every time she left him, he’d bring her flowers and gifts, promise he’d changed, and she’d take him back. And it’d start all over again.”   
  
“What happened?”   
  
“He killed her.”   
  
“Shit.”   
  
They sat in silence for a few minutes.   
  
“What should I do?” Pelle asked eventually.   
  
“I can’t tell you that. Only you can decide. But if you want my opinion - stay away from him. He’s dangerous.”   
  
Pelle didn’t reply. He lay down on his bed, turning towards the wall. Øystein sighed and lay down on his makeshift bed on the floor. They were asleep within minutes.   
  
Øystein was woken a few hours later by his phone ringing. He answered it groggily.   
  
“S’up?”   
  
“It’s Marius. We changed our minds.”   
  
“What d’you mean?”   
  
“We want to do another show. The fans keep asking when the next one is going to be, and they say they’ll bring their friends, too. It’ll be huge.”   
  
“I don’t know. I don’t think Pelle is up to it. The last show really wrecked him. He’s exhausted.” Øystein looked over at the boy, sleeping deeply. He hadn’t stirred at the sound of the phone ringing.   
  
“We’ll give him time to recover, don’t worry. We have some new songs to rehearse, and it’s going to take a while to book a venue and get the word out.”   
  
“I’ll talk to him when he wakes up. I’ll call you back later.”   
  
“Alright. Later.”   
  
Øystein hung up just as Pelle opened his eyes.   
  
“Morning.”   
  
“What’s going on?” Pelle asked sleepily.   
  
“Uh.. Marius just called. They want to do another show.”   
  
Pelle sat up. “What? What did you tell him?”   
  
“I told him I’d talk to you about it. What do you think?”   
  
“I - “   
  
“You don’t have to decide right away. They still have some stuff to work out, and I told him you were wiped out from the last one. He said he’d give you time.”   
  
“Right. I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I need some coffee.”   
  
They headed downstairs and found Jan and Jørn in the kitchen, pouring five cups of coffee.   
  
“Who’s the fifth one for?” Øystein asked curiously.   
  
“Faust is on his way over. We invited him to hang out today.”   
  
“And you didn’t think to let us know?” Øystein snapped.   
  
Jan raised his eyebrows. “What’s the problem?”   
  
“Nothing. I just didn’t know he was coming, that’s all. I don’t like surprise guests.”   
  
“Sorry, we would have told you, but you were still asleep. We didn’t want to disturb you.” Jørn looked guilty, and Øystein softened.   
  
“Forget it.” He took two mugs of coffee and turned to hand one to Pelle, but he had disappeared.   
  
“Great,” he huffed. He wandered through the house, calling Pelle’s name. He found him on the sofa, his head in his hands.   
  
“It’ll be okay,” he said, offering the mug. “I won’t leave you alone with him. He’s coming to hang out with the others anyway, you probably won’t even see him.”   
  
Pelle took the mug without looking up. “Thanks.”   
  
“We could go out, if you like. We don’t have to stay.”   
  
Pelle shook his head. “I’m not feeling up to it. I’m too tired.”   
  
A knock at the door interrupted them. What little colour Pelle’s face held drained immediately. Øystein squeezed his shoulder and went to open the door.   
  
“Hey, Øystein. I heard there was coffee over here with my name on it,” Faust laughed.   
  
“In the kitchen. Jørn and Jan are waiting.” Øystein stepped aside to let him into the house. Faust spotted Pelle on the sofa.   
  
“Hey,” he said, giving him a small wave. Pelle tried to smile politely, but it came out as more of a grimace.   
  
“Hey.”   
  
“He’s feeling a bit run down today, so we’re just gonna hang out upstairs,” Øystein told Faust.    
  
Faust nodded. “Alright. Maybe we’ll see you later.”   
  
“Maybe,” Øystein agreed. Faust left them and headed towards the kitchen, where he was greeted by cheers from Jørn and Jan.   
  
The second he was out of sight, Pelle shot up the stairs and into the bathroom, throwing up into the toilet. Øystein went after him.   
  
“You okay?” He leaned against the door frame, his eyes narrowed in concern.   
  
“Fine,” Pelle heaved.   
  
“Yeah. You look it.”   
  
Pelle sat back against the wall, shivering.   
  
“Come on. Let’s go write some new songs or something, to take your mind off this.”   
  
Pelle nodded. “Sounds good.” He stood up shakily, and followed Øystein to the bedroom.   
  
Two hours later, he’d forgotten all about Faust and had lost himself in lyrics, scrawling half-sentences over several sheets of paper. Øystein was working on riffs on his guitar, noting down anything he thought sounded good.   
  
Pelle put down his pen, listening to something intently. Øystein stopped playing.   
  
“The house is quiet,” he remarked.   
  
“Do you think they’ve gone out?” Pelle asked.   
  
“Probably. Jørn and Jan aren’t the type to sit around the house all day. They’re probably down by some underpass spray painting dicks on the walls.”   
  
“I’m gonna get something to eat. You want anything?” Pelle stood up, stretching.   
  
“Nah, I’m good. I’m gonna keep working on this riff. I think I’ve got something.”   
  
Pelle nodded, and headed down to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.   
  
“Hey.”   
  
Pelle stopped at the doorway and dropped his hand to his side. Faust sat at the table, watching him.   
  
“Uh… Where are the others?” Pelle asked, swallowing nervously.   
  
“Gone to get more beer. We ran out.” Faust held up a half empty bottle.   
  
“Why didn’t you go with them?”   
  
Faust shrugged. “I was comfortable.”   
  
“Right.” Pelle turned back towards the stairs.   
  
“Wait. I want to talk to you.”   
  
Pelle closed his eyes, then slowly made his way into the kitchen. He stopped just short of the table, opposite Faust.   
  
“What do you want, Faust?” Pelle asked wearily.   
  
“Some fucking respect, for a start.” He stood up and stepped around the table towards Pelle. Pelle stayed rooted to the spot. “What does he know?”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“You fucking know who.” Faust raised a hand to Pelle’s face, and Pelle flinched. Faust ran his fingers down Pelle’s cheek, then closed them around his throat.   
  
“I’ve been watching you. Whispering to each other. At the bar. At the show. So, what have you told him?”   
  
“N-nothing,” Pelle gasped. “I haven’t… I swear…”   
  
Faust tightened his grip, and Pelle clawed at the long fingers.   
  
“I swear, he doesn’t know anything. I wouldn’t… Please.”   
  
Faust turned Pelle’s face towards him, forcing him to make eye contact. He held it for a minute, then leaned forward, and kissed him softly on the lips.   
  
“I really did miss you,” he whispered. Pelle whimpered and struggled to pull free. Faust released him, and he fell back against the counter, coughing.   
  
“Please, leave me alone.”   
  
“No way. You’re too much fun,” Faust winked. He backed away as the front door opened, and Jørn and Jan came charging into the house.   
  
“Faust, we got beer!” Jan yelled. They stopped as they met the scene in front of them - Faust leaning casually against the table, and Pelle not making eye contact with any of them, his shoulders heaving.   
  
“What’s going on?” Jørn asked.   
  
“I was just talking to your frontman here. You know, band stuff. Ain’t that right, Pelle?”   
  
Pelle nodded obediently.   
  
“Right.” Jan seemed unconvinced. Pelle had been acting strangely ever since he’d first laid eyes on Faust. “You joining us, Pelle?”   
  
“No. Øystein and I are working on some new stuff.” He glanced up briefly. “I’d better go.”   
  
He pushed past them and walked sullenly back to his room. They watched him go, exchanging worried looks. Faust merely looked amused.   
  
***   
  
In the bedroom, Øystein was absorbed in his music. He barely registered Pelle re-entering the room. He stopped playing, wrote down the chords, and picked up his guitar again.   
  
“Get out.”   
  
Øystein looked up. “What?”   
  
“I said, get out.”   
  
“What happened? I thought you were going to get food?”   
  
“Nothing happened,” Pelle said, not looking at him. “I just… changed my mind. And now I want to be alone.”   
  
Øystein set his guitar down and folded his arms. Pelle looked anywhere but at him.   
  
“What’s going on?”   
  
“Nothing,” Pelle snapped, finally making eye contact. “Just leave me alone.” He stepped away from the open door to let Øystein pass.   
  
“Fine,” Øystein said. “You know where to find me.”   
  
Pelle didn’t answer, and slammed the door shut behind Øystein.   
  
Sitting down on his bed, he ran his fingers over his throat, wondering if it would bruise. He shuddered at the memory of Faust’s lips on his, and lay down on his stomach, burying his face in the covers. He spent the rest of the day in bed, ignoring his growling stomach and the occasional knock at the door from Øystein.


	4. Chapter 4

Marius called again the next morning.  
  
“Did Pelle make up his mind yet?”  
  
Øystein sighed. “No. Something happened yesterday, but he won’t tell me anything. He spent all day in his room.”  
  
“Shit. Is he okay?”  
  
“Honestly, I don’t know. He seems more reclusive than usual, which is saying something. I’m really worried about him, man.”  
  
Jan entered the room then, stopping at the doorway. He waited for Øystein to finish the call.  
  
“I’ll try to talk to him again today, and I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.  
  
“Øystein, I have to tell you something.”  
  
Øystein looked up. “What is it?”  
  
“I think something’s going on with Pelle and Faust.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Øystein said, his eyes narrowing.  
  
“Yesterday… Jørn and I went out to get more beer. Faust didn’t want to come, so we left him here. When we got back, they were in the kitchen together. Pelle seemed pretty worked up. Faust gave us some bullshit about talking band stuff, but Pelle couldn’t even look at him. I think… I mean, are they, like, together?”  
  
Øystein stared. “You left him here? _Alone?_ ”  
  
Jan shifted nervously. “Yeah. We weren’t gone long; we thought it’d be okay.”  
  
“Well, it wasn’t!” Øystein snapped. “Shit. I gotta talk to Pelle.” He hurried out of the room, muttering “ _fucking idiot_ ” under his breath.  
  
Jan wasn’t sure whether he was talking to himself or not.  
  
Øystein took the stairs two at a time and skidded to Pelle’s bedroom door, hammering on it.  
  
“Pelle!” he yelled. “Please, talk to me. I didn’t know he was here. Jan just told me everything. I’m sorry.”  
  
The door creaked open, and he pushed his way into the room, wrapping Pelle in a hug.  
  
“What did he do to you?”  
  
Pelle shuddered and pulled away.  
  
“He asked if I’d told you anything, about what happened between us. I said no, but he didn’t believe me. He…” Pelle faltered, raising a hand to his throat.  
  
Øystein understood immediately, and threw a punch at the wall. “That _bastard._ ”  
  
“He said he’s not going to leave me alone. I think he made friends with the others to get close to me. They’ll keep inviting him over, and he’ll be here all the time. Or the bands will play together again, and he’ll be there, too. I can’t escape him, no matter what I try.”  
  
“We’ll figure this out, I promise,” Øystein said. “I don’t know how, but we’ll make him stop.”  
  
Pelle let out a sob. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Just, don’t let him know that you know. He’s already watching us. If he gets suspicious, I don’t know what he’ll do.” Of course, Pelle knew exactly what he would do, but he shook the thought out of his mind.  
  
***  
  
Pelle didn’t see Faust again for almost a week. The two bands had been busy working on their own music and hadn’t had time to get together. That changed when _Thorns_ recorded their demo, and wanted to celebrate. They hired a small venue and threw a party, inviting friends and fans alike. They planned to play a few songs during the night, too, so they had brought their instruments. Øystein helped them set up while Jørn and Jan kept Pelle company at the bar.  
  
“You okay?” Jan asked, nudging Pelle.  
  
Pelle nodded. “I’m fine.”  
  
Jan raised his eyebrows at Jørn. Neither of them looked convinced. Pelle was watching the band set up, but his eyes were fixed on one member.  
  
Faust finished putting his drum set together, then leaned back on the stool, admiring his work. He looked up at the crowd, and spotted Pelle watching him. He winked. Pelle swallowed and looked away.  
  
“What was that?” Jørn asked.  
  
“What?” Pelle said nonchalantly.  
  
“That look. He just winked at you.”  
  
“No, he didn’t.”  
  
“I saw him.”  
  
“So did I,” Jan chimed in. “What’s going on between you two?”  
  
“Nothing. Just leave it,” Pelle snapped.  
  
“Do you like him?” Jørn teased.  
  
Pelle smashed his bottle on the bar and pointed it at Jørn. “Don’t you ever fucking say that again.”  
  
Jørn’s eyes widened, and Jan grabbed hold of Pelle’s wrist.  
  
“Hey, chill out,” he said. “We were just messing with you.”  
  
Pelle glared at him. “Well, don’t.”  
  
“Sorry, Pelle,” Jørn said.  
  
Pelle dropped the remnants of the bottle on the floor and stormed off towards the bathrooms. He didn’t see Faust following after him.  
  
“What was all that about?” he called. Pelle froze, his hand on the bathroom door. Faust came up behind him, standing too closely for Pelle’s liking. Faust pushed the door open and nudged Pelle inside.  
  
“It was nothing. They just pissed me off,” Pelle said through gritted teeth.  
  
“What did they say to you?” Faust put a hand on Pelle’s shoulder and spun him around. Pelle backed away.  
  
“Just leave me alone.”  
  
“No.” Faust moved his hand to Pelle’s chin and turned his head upwards. “You have beautiful eyes, you know.”  
  
Pelle closed them, not liking where this was going.  
  
“Please,” he whimpered. “Let me go.”  
  
Faust sighed. “When are you going to realise that you need me?”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“You’re nothing without me. Remember all the good times? You had friends, you went to parties.” Faust smiled. “I miss the fun we had.”  
  
“You mean the times when you beat me so badly I couldn’t leave the house for weeks? Or when you nearly choked me to death, and I had to go to the hospital and give them some bullshit story about being mugged?” Pelle snarled. He pulled away from Faust and slapped him across the face.  
  
He regretted his decision immediately.  
  
“Shit... I’m sorry, Faust,” he said, backing up into the wall. Faust’s eyes darkened, and he stepped towards Pelle. Pelle pressed himself to the wall, trying to shrink as small as he could as Faust towered over him.  
  
“Touch me again,” Faust whispered, lowering his head to Pelle’s ear. “And I’ll fucking kill you.”  
  
Pelle nodded, hardly daring to breathe for fear of angering Faust even more. Faust straightened up suddenly and left the bathroom, the door swinging shut on Pelle’s sobs.  
  
In the midst of the partygoers, Øystein was looking for Pelle. He spotted Jørn and Jan near the bar, and headed over, stepping on the bottle shards as he approached.  
  
“Have either of you seen Pelle? I know he was with you earlier, but I can’t find him anywhere.”  
  
Jan nodded towards the bathrooms. “He was going that way, last time I saw him. About ten minutes ago. Haven’t seen him since.”  
  
“Did anyone go with with him?” Øystein asked, thinking of Faust’s sudden disappearance from the stage.  
  
“Not that we know of,” Jørn said. “He got all pissed off at us. He shattered that bottle and threatened me with it, then stormed off.”  
  
Øystein ran his hands through his hair. “Damn it. What the hell did you say to him? He never lashes out at anyone.”  
  
“I just asked him if he liked Faust, since he’s been acting weird ever since the guy turned up, and they had a bit of a moment earlier when you guys were setting up. Pelle was staring at him, and Faust saw, and he winked.” Jørn paused. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I saw Faust follow him to the bathroom. Maybe they were going to hook up.”  
  
Øystein glared, unable to answer. He shook his head, then headed in the direction of the bathroom.  
  
 _What if he’s hurt?_ he thought. _Or worse._ _  
_ _  
_Someone shoved past him, and he looked up, scowling. Faust glared back. Øystein noted the red mark on his cheek.  
  
“Have you seen Pelle? He’s been missing for a while and the guys said he came this way.”  
  
Faust shook his head. “Nope. Sorry.”  
  
“Right. Well, if you see him, let him know I’m looking for him.”  
  
“What am I, your messenger?” Faust scoffed. He strode away, and Øystein growled and turned back to the bathroom.  
  
The bathroom seemed deserted when he opened the door, but he called out anyway.  
  
“Pelle? You in here?” There was no reply. Øystein shut the door behind him and called again.  
  
“Pelle! Where the hell…?” He stopped when he saw the open window. “No way.” He inspected the window. It was definitely big enough to allow the singer to crawl through. He pulled out his phone and dialled Pelle’s number. It went straight to voicemail.  
  
 __Fuck. He sprinted out of the bathroom and back through the venue, knocking several people out of his way, but he didn’t care. Finding his car, he sped off, arriving home in less than half the time it usually took.  
  
“Pelle?” he shouted, running through the house. “Are you here?” He was greeted by total silence, and he started to panic. He tried calling Pelle’s phone again, but it was still switched off. He called Jan instead.  
  
“Hey, where’d you go? I saw you running like hell, what’s going on?”  
  
“Pelle’s missing,” Øystein said breathlessly.


	5. Chapter 5

“He’s what?” Jan said, sticking a finger in his other ear.  
  
“He’s _missing!_ The bathroom window was open; I think he climbed out. He didn’t come home. I don’t know where he is.”   
  
“Shit.” Jan nudged Jørn and gestured to the exit. Jørn followed him outside, and Jan switched the phone to loudspeaker.   
  
“Is there anywhere else he might have gone?” Jan asked.   
  
“I don’t know,” Øystein said. “He could be anywhere.”   
  
“Come pick us up, we’ll go and look for him,” Jan said, hanging up.   
  
“Do you want to explain what the fuck just happened?” Jørn asked.   
  
“Pelle’s missing. Øystein says he climbed out of the bathroom window, and that he didn’t go home.”   
  
“Why the hell would he do that?”   
  
“I don’t know.” Jan shook his head. “Wait. This was right after Faust followed him to the bathroom. What if something happened in there? Something bad, I mean. What if he’s hurt?”   
  
Jørn thought for a moment. “No,” he disagreed. “Faust is a good guy. He wouldn’t hurt Pelle. He’s just… going through something. I don’t know, but you know what he’s like. Maybe he’s finally cracked.”   
  
“Don’t say that. He has to be okay.”   
  
Øystein pulled up at that moment, and they got in the car.   
  
“Where to first?” Jan asked.   
  
“The cemetery. I thought of it on the way over. You know how he likes the quiet there.”   
  
They set off. The cemetery wasn’t far, but to them it seemed like miles. They parked outside ten minutes later.   
  
Pushing open the heavy iron gates, they went inside and split off into three directions. Quietly, they made their ways between the headstones, looking carefully down each row of graves and behind every giant statue.   
  
Jørn found him first. He whistled loudly, and the others joined him a few minutes later. Pelle was laying on top of a grave, shivering, his eyes tightly shut. Øystein took off his jacket and draped it over him, then carried him back to the car. Jan sat in the backseat with Pelle’s head in his lap and an arm tucked around him, rubbing warmth into his freezing body.   
  
***   
  
Pelle woke in his own bed, Øystein sitting at the end of it against the wall.   
  
“How are you feeling?” Øystein asked.   
  
Pelle wasn’t sure, so he said nothing.   
  
“What happened?” Øystein asked instead, his tone demanding an answer.   
  
“I hit him,” Pelle said, sitting up. “He kept telling me that he missed me, that I was nothing without him, and that pissed me off. So, I slapped him.” He chuckled. “That was stupid.”   
  
“I saw the mark. It was a pretty good one,” Øystein smiled. “I’m glad you stood up for yourself. But… why’d you climb out the window?”   
  
“He threatened me. He said if I touched him again, he’d kill me. I thought he was going to right then, but he left, and I ran. I couldn’t go back through the party. Someone might have stopped me. I couldn’t face anyone at the time, so there was only one way out.”   
  
Øystein nodded. “Why the cemetery?”   
  
“I needed peace. Somewhere to calm down and think.” Pelle shrugged. “It was the first place I thought of. How did you find me?”   
  
Øystein grinned. “It was the first place I thought of.”   
  
Pelle gave him a small, grateful smile. “Thank you for coming to get me. I might’ve stayed there all night.” He tilted his head slightly, something suddenly occurring to him. “Where are the others?”   
  
“They’ve gone back to the party. I didn’t want them hovering and asking questions.”   
  
“Back to the… how long was I gone?”   
  
“Not very long. An hour, maybe.”   
  
“It feels longer,” Pelle said. “What did you tell them?”   
  
“Nothing much. Just that you’d run off somewhere. They wanted to help look for you.” Øystein paused, looking at Pelle thoughtfully. “Do you want to tell them?”   
  
“I don’t know.”   
  
“They know something’s up. They’ve been asking about you and…” Øystein stopped short of saying the name at Pelle’s expression. “They think something is going on between you two.”   
  
“Then we’d better tell them something,” Pelle sighed.   
  
“The truth?” Øystein asked.   
  
“No. That’ll cause more problems than it solves. Problems with the band. I’d rather this just stays with me.”   
  
“With _us_ ,” Øystein corrected him.   
  
Pelle nodded. “With us.”   
  
They sat in silence for a minute, then Øystein suddenly clapped a hand to his head.   
  
“Shit, I forgot to tell Marius we weren’t gonna do the show. I meant to tonight, but…”   
  
“But you had to come after me,” Pelle finished for him.   
  
“I’ll call him tomorrow. You need to sleep.” He swung his legs off the bed and slid onto the floor, letting Pelle pull the covers up over his head. Øystein lay down, dozing off a few minutes later.


	6. Chapter 6

Øystein woke before Pelle the next morning, and slipped quietly out of the room to call Marius. The phone rang several times before it was picked up, and he was starting to get impatient.  
  
“Hello?” came a groggy voice.   
  
“Marius, hey,” Øystein said. “Listen, I meant to tell you last night, but something came up. We’re not gonna do the show with you. Pelle is not well at all, and I don’t know how long until he recovers. So, we’re gonna take a break for a while.”   
  
“Fuck, man, you’re telling me this now?” Marius groaned.   
  
“I’m sorry, like I said, something came up.”   
  
“Do you know how much work I’ve put into setting this up? There’s gonna be twice as many people there as last time. You’ve really fucked things up, you know that?”   
  
“This isn’t my fault!” Øystein snapped. “If you want to blame someone, blame your drummer!”   
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”   
  
Shit _._ “Nothing. I- Just forget it,” Øystein said. “I’m just tired.”   
  
“You specifically said our drummer. What’s he done?”   
  
“Nothing. Just forget I said anything. Please - “   
  
Marius cut him off. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Øystein.” He hung up.   
  
Øystein dropped his phone onto the table. _Fuck._   
  
He made some coffee and sat at the kitchen table, thinking hard. How the hell was he going to fix this?   
  
Pelle appeared shortly after, looking far better than he had the previous night.   
  
“Morning,” Øystein said in a far-too-cheerful tone.   
  
“Coffee,” Pelle grunted.   
  
Øystein poured a mug and slid it across to him.   
  
“Thanks.”   
  
“Did you sleep alright?” Øystein asked.   
  
Pelle nodded. “Better than I have in a while, actually.”   
  
“That’s good.”   
  
They finished their coffee without another word, then Pelle headed back upstairs to change. Øystein paced the kitchen as he tried to decide what to do. He called Marius again, but there was no answer. He wondered if he should tell Pelle what had happened.   
  
“What’s wrong?” Pelle asked from the doorway, concern evident in his voice.   
  
“Uh, nothing. I mean, I called Marius earlier. He was pissed when I told him we weren’t playing. I said we were gonna take a break.”   
  
“Oh. That’s probably a good idea,” Pelle nodded. “What do you want to do today?”   
  
Øystein thought. “Movies and pizza?” he suggested.   
  
Pelle grinned. “Sounds great. Will Jørn and Jan join us?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“I’d better go and wake them, then.” Pelle went back upstairs and banged on the bedroom door, rousing the drummer and bassist from their drunken sleep. They emerged, looking slightly bedraggled, clearly hungover, but perking up once they heard there was going to be pizza.   
  
They hopped down the stairs and started pulling out movies to watch, while Pelle and Øystein discussed pizza toppings and started to order.   
  
An hour later, they were stretched out in various positions around the living room, stuffed full of cheese and pepperoni, and halfway through a bad horror movie.   
  
A rustling outside interrupted them. Øystein paused the movie and listened.   
  
“Probably just a cat or something,” Jan said. “Put the movie back on.”   
  
A second later, they heard it again.   
  
“I’m going to check it out,” Øystein said, pushing himself up off the sofa.   
  
“Hurry up, or we’re finishing without you!” Jørn called after him.   
  
Pelle snorted. “That sounded so dirty.”   
  
Jørn flicked a pizza crust at him. “Shut up, you know what I meant.”   
  
Øystein stuck his head back inside. “Uh, you might want to come and see this.”   
  
They groaned, and heaved themselves from their comfortable spots, heading outside. Looking towards where Øystein was pointing, Pelle froze.   
  
“Well,” Jan gulped. “I was right about it being a cat.”   
  
The animal hung from its tail on the side wall of the house, its throat slit. Someone had spray painted ‘ _Death_ ’ in huge, black letters above it.   
  
“What the fuck?” Jørn whispered. “Who the hell would do this?”   
  
Øystein glanced at Pelle, who was shaking hard, his fists clenched by his sides.   
  
“No idea,” he said. “Come on, let’s clean this up.”   
  
Jørn and Jan went back inside to grab sponges and soapy water, and Øystein turned to Pelle.   
  
“I won’t let him near you, I swear,” he said. “He won’t hurt you.”   
  
“How do you know that?” Pelle croaked. Øystein didn’t reply.   
  
Jørn and Jan came back with the cleaning supplies. They set the bucket and sponges down, the water sloshing out over the side.   
  
“Right, let’s get this over with,” Jan shuddered, trying not to look at the cat.   
  
“Pelle,” Øystein said. “Why don’t you go back inside and clean up the living room, and we’ll get started here. We’ll meet you back inside and finish the movie when we’re done.”   
  
Pelle nodded, taking one last look at the wall, and the message that was clearly meant for him.   
  
***   
  
Pelle couldn’t focus on the rest of the movies they watched that day. He twitched at every noise that came from outside, his eyes darting towards the window every time a bird flew past. He chewed his nails, fiddled with his hair, and shifted his position every few minutes. Øystein watched him quietly. He knew he had to admit to what he had done, but he couldn’t bear the thought of Pelle blaming him, after he’d promised to protect him. He made his mind up by the end of the third movie.   
  
“Pelle, can I talk to you? In private.” He nodded towards the kitchen, and Pelle followed him out.   
  
“What is it?” Pelle asked nervously.   
  
Øystein took a deep breath. “When I talked to Marius this morning, he was pissed. Really pissed. He blamed me for you not wanting to play with them again. I told him it wasn’t my fault, that you were just not well, and I lost it. I said something really fucking stupid.”   
  
“What?” Pelle pressed when Øystein didn’t continue. “What did you say?”   
  
“I told him that, if he wanted someone to blame, he should blame his drummer.” Øystein looked away, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. This is my fault.”   
  
Pelle said nothing. He couldn’t process what Øystein had said. He’d practically told Marius that Faust had been bullying him, and Marius would have confronted Faust. Faust, of course, would have been furious, and had taken it out on Pelle and his friends.   
  
_Friends._ Some fucking friend.   
  
Pelle turned, then looked back. “I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day,” he said, his voice unwavering. He headed up the stairs towards his room, locking the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

Øystein spent the day cleaning around the house and trying to get hold of Marius on the phone. After the fifth unanswered call, he gave up, and slumped onto the sofa. His own phone rang almost immediately.  
  
“Marius?”   
  
“Øystein. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you.” Marius sounded tired. “We just had a band meeting. It’s over.”   
  
“Fuck. I’m sorry. What happened?”   
  
“Faust. He came clean, told us what he did to your place. The fucking psychopath!”   
  
“That all he told you?” Øystein asked.   
  
“Yeah. Why? Is there something else?”   
  
“No, nothing. Forget it.”   
  
“If there’s something going on between you…” Marius started. “Just be careful. Don’t let it go too far.”   
  
“I won’t. Thanks, Marius. And good luck.”   
  
“Thanks. You too.”   
  
Øystein dropped the phone and leaned back into the sofa. This sounded like a good thing, so why did he suddenly feel worse? He was sure there was more to come, but he couldn’t figure out what. Either way, he had to tell Pelle, regardless of his temporary banishment from the singer’s room.   
  
He slowly made his way up the stairs, hesitating outside the door. He was about to knock when the door swung open.   
  
“Øystein. Come in.” Pelle stepped aside and gestured into the room.   
  
“What’s up?” Øystein asked curiously.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Pelle said. “I shouldn’t have blamed you. It’s my fault. I told you about Faust, then asked you not to tell anyone else. You must have been going crazy. It was bound to slip out eventually.”   
  
“No, I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” Øystein said. He moved closer to Pelle and reached out a hand, but Pelle backed away. Øystein sighed and dropped his hand.   
  
“Sorry, I just… I can’t let you touch me,” Pelle shrugged.   
  
“I understand. I’m sorry I told Marius about Faust.”   
  
“I’m sure he would have figured it out by himself soon enough. He’s not stupid. If Jørn and Jan noticed something…” He smiled at Øystein, then tilted his head questioningly. “What did you come up here for?”   
  
“Oh. _Thorns_ has split up. Faust told them what he did to the house, and they decided it was best if they went their separate ways. Sounded like he was bragging about it.”   
  
Pelle wasn’t sure what to feel. “That’s… a relief, I think.” He sat down on his bed, inviting Øystein to join him. “At least there won’t be any more shows to run into him at, and maybe he’ll stop hanging out with the guys.”   
  
“Maybe,” Øystein agreed, taking the spot next to Pelle.   
  
“Is it just me, or does this feel like the calm before the storm? Like there’s something worse coming?”   
  
“I know the feeling,” Øystein nodded. “I suppose we’re just being paranoid. I don’t think he’ll stick around much longer, now that there’s no band.”   
  
“But what about me? All that stuff he said…”   
  
“Don’t think about that, Pelle. Let’s just focus on right now. We’ll worry about Faust later, if we need to.”   
  
Pelle nodded and relaxed, resting his head on Øystein’s shoulder. “Right now,” he repeated softly.   
  
***   
  
The rest of the week passed uneventfully. No more dead animals or painted messages appeared on the house, and Jørn and Jan had decided they wanted nothing more to do with Faust after Øystein had told them what had happened.   
  
Pelle woke early one morning, feeling calmer and more refreshed than he had in a long time. He practically skipped down the stairs to the kitchen, beaming at a surprised Jan, who was just putting on some coffee.   
  
“You want one?” Jan asked, holding up the pot.   
  
“That would be awesome,” Pelle grinned, plonking down on a stool at the counter. Jan looked at him oddly.   
  
“You feeling okay?”   
  
“I feel great. Why d’you ask?”   
  
“You’re smiling,” Jan chuckled.   
  
“Is that a crime?”   
  
“No, no, it’s just… You don’t smile much. It’s nice.”   
  
Pelle blushed and looked away. “Thanks. It feels nice. I’d forgotten what it was like.”   
  
Jan slid him a mug of coffee and sat down opposite him with his own.   
  
“Are the others still asleep?” Pelle asked.   
  
Jan snorted. “It’s not midday yet, of course they are.”   
  
“Good point.” Pelle sipped his coffee, then cleared his throat. “I’m thinking of going out today. Into town.”   
  
Jan raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s about time I got out on my own for a while. Besides, I need some new clothes. I’ll go soon, probably before Øystein wakes. Will you tell him? He’ll only worry if he doesn’t know where I am.”  
  
Jan nodded. “Of course. Will you be gone long?”   
  
“Only a few hours. I’m not sure if I can handle much more than that.”   
  
Jan smiled. “You’ll be fine.”   
  
Pelle returned the grin. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” He drained his mug, then stood up. “I’ll see you later.” He pulled his jacket off the hook and draped it over his arm.   
  
“Later,” Jan said, raising his mug as Pelle left the house.   
  
As it was still early, the town centre was quiet, and Pelle was able to get around without much hindrance. He bought some new jeans, three t-shirts, and a pair of leather gloves. He chose a small coffee shop to take a break in, watching people go about their days through the window. A familiar face passed by, and he froze, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.   
  
Faust stood at the window, staring directly at Pelle, expressionless and unblinking. Pelle stared back, trying to conceal the quivering of his lip behind his cup. Faust grinned at him, then turned, and disappeared into the crowd that was beginning to form in the street.   
  
Pelle lowered his cup, no longer interested in drinking the coffee. He stared at the dark liquid.   
  
_That doesn’t mean anything,_ he told himself. _He’s just trying to scare me._   
  
He shook off his fear and left the cafe, making his way towards home.  
  
***  
  
Øystein stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, sniffing the air. Jan watched as Øystein fumbled for the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug and spilling half of it on the counter.  
  
“Dammit,” Øystein grumbled. He dumped a towel on top of the puddle and sat down.  
  
“Pelle’s gone out,” Jan said. Øystein looked up.  
  
“What? Where?”  
  
“He said he needed some new clothes, so he went to buy some. He asked me to tell you.”  
  
“I see. Thanks.”  
  
Jan nodded and stood up, sniffing his armpit. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”  
  
“Yeah, you do that,” Øystein laughed.  
  
Jan flicked a hand across Øystein’s head as he passed. He missed, and Øystein kicked out at him. They both burst into laughter as Øystein’s foot connected with the counter instead, and he let out a cry of pain.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Jan sniggered.  
  
“You, too.”  
  
Jan turned back towards the stairs.  
  
A crash, followed by an explosion made him stumble, and he landed hard on his knees. Øystein shot to his feet and pulled him up.  
  
“What the fuck was that?” Jan yelled.  
  
“I don’t know - do you smell burning?”  
  
Jan sniffed. “I do.”  
  
The raced towards the stairs, the air getting hotter by the second. They made it halfway up before it became unbearable.  
  
“Jørn!” Jan screamed. He tried to run to their shared room, but Øystein pulled him back.  
  
“The explosion came from Pelle’s room,” he said, pointing to the smoke pouring out from under the door. “It might go off again. You’re not going up there.”  
  
“What about Jørn?” Jan moaned.  
  
“I’ll go. You get out.”  
  
“Øystein!” Jan shouted after him as he tore off up the stairs. He started back down but stopped at a thud from behind him. Øystein reappeared, coughing.  
  
“He’s stuck,” he choked out. “I can’t get him out.” He collapsed to his knees, smoke filling his lungs with every breath.  
  
“Go, I’ll get him,” Jan said, pushing past Øystein. “I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”  
  
“Be careful!” Øystein pulled himself to his feet, stumbled down the stairs, and crashed through the front door into the fresh air. He sank into the grass, heaving, and closed his eyes, Pelle’s scream not quite reaching his ears.


	8. Chapter 8

Pelle heard the explosion before he reached the end of the road leading to the house. He dropped his bag and ran, nearly tripping over his feet. Smoke billowed overhead. The house came into view a minute later, and Pelle spotted a figure laying motionless in the grass. He made to run towards it, when Faust stepped out from the shadow of the trees. He wrapped an arm around Pelle from behind and held a knife to his throat.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he said softly. “It’s dangerous. You could get hurt.”   
  
Pelle screamed, desperately trying to wrench himself free. Faust dug the knife in harder, drawing blood, and covered Pelle’s mouth with his free hand.   
  
“You’re staying with me. I want you to watch,” he growled. “You deserve this.”   
  
Pelle squirmed and kicked, tears streaking his face.   
  
“If you had kept your mouth shut, this wouldn’t be happening. This is your fault.”   
  
Pelle howled into Faust’s hand, and Faust held tight.   
  
“They threw me out of the band because of you. Because you just had to tell _him_ about us.” He watched as Øystein began to stir, pushing himself onto all fours, then to his knees. He looked up, and saw Faust clutching Pelle, who was thrashing wildly, not caring about the blade dragging across his neck.   
  
Øystein snarled, and heaved himself to his feet.   
  
“Let him go, you son of a bitch!” he yelled.   
  
“Why don’t you come over here and make me?” Faust laughed.   
  
Pelle dug his fingers into Faust’s hand.   
  
“You got something to say, love?” Faust purred. He lowered his hand to Pelle’s shoulder, gripping the collar of his shirt tightly.   
  
“Øystein!” Pelle cried. “What’s happening? I - “   
  
“That’s enough.” Faust kicked Pelle’s legs from under him, and slammed a foot into his stomach. Pelle choked and curled in on himself, gasping.   
  
“Leave him alone, Faust!” Øystein staggered towards them, his fists clenching. “I told Marius about you, not him. He didn’t want them to know. He didn’t want anyone to know, but I made him tell me. It was making him sick.”   
  
“And now he’s going to pay for his mistake,” Faust said, placing his foot on Pelle’s throat.   
  
“No!” Øystein picked up speed, tackling Faust to the ground. Pelle drew a breath, coughing hard.   
  
“Øystein!” another voice shouted. Pelle lifted his head slightly; Jørn had escaped the burning house, but not unharmed. Blood ran down his left arm, which hung limply by his side. He fell to his knees, retching on the acrid smoke now pouring out of the house from all directions, flames flickering behind the clouds that swirled upwards.   
  
The sound of punches landing tore Pelle’s attention away from the fallen bassist. Øystein was on top of Faust, his expression twisted into something unrecognisable, his fists pounding Faust’s eyes, nose, and cheeks, determined to break something. Faust wound a hand through Øystein’s hair and pulled him sideways. Øystein rolled onto his side, landing hard on his shoulder. He groaned and made to stand, but Faust pinned him down, wrapping both hands around his throat. He squeezed with every ounce of his strength, watching Øystein’s eyes roll back with vicious glee.   
  
“No…” Pelle moaned. He crawled towards Øystein, pulling on Faust’s arm as hard as he could. Faust released Øystein and swung a fist at Pelle. His nose shattered, and he fell back, roaring in agony, blood spurting down his front and staining the grass.   
  
The distraction had allowed the guitarist to regain enough strength to close his hand around the knife Faust had dropped, and with a yell, he thrust it upwards into his stomach. Faust’s eyes widened in shock. He inhaled sharply as Øystein pulled the knife back out and flung it as far as he could, losing it in the grass. He pushed Faust away from him and lay back, panting.   
  
Pelle moaned quietly, drawing Øystein back to consciousness. He rolled over and pulled himself towards Pelle.   
  
“Jørn…” Pelle choked out, pointing towards the house where the bassist still lay.   
  
“Come on, let’s go and get him.” Øystein heaved Pelle to his feet and half-carried him towards Jørn.   
  
“What about Jan?”   
  
Øystein stifled a sob. “I don’t know.” He lowered Pelle to the ground and dropped beside him, turning Jørn onto his back. He was pale and bloody, a deep gash in his shoulder. Øystein pressed his fingers to Jørn’s throat. There was a faint pulse.   
  
“I think he’s going to be okay, we just need to stop the bleeding.” Øystein pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around Jørn’s arm, holding it down tightly. The flare of pain roused Jørn, and he opened his eyes, crying out as Øystein pressed down on his wound.   
  
“It’s okay, Jørn. It’s just a cut. You’re going to be okay.”   
  
“Jan…” Jørn breathed.   
  
“Is he…” Øystein couldn’t finish the question. Jørn shook his head briefly.   
  
“He didn’t make it.”   
  
Øystein closed his eyes as Pelle wailed, the sound almost drowned out by sirens blaring and tyres screeching across the yard.   
  
Someone gripped his arm gently but firmly, and pulled him away from the body he hadn’t realised he was clinging to. Pelle refused to leave his side, so they had been taken to the ambulance together as two medics covered Jørn with a blanket. Faust had recovered enough to make it into the ambulance himself, but after a short conversation between Pelle, Øystein, and a police officer, he had been handcuffed to a rail inside the vehicle. He watched Pelle and Øystein leaning against each other, sobbing quietly.


End file.
